Page 21 of Tempting a Lonely Lord
“I’m pleased to meet you, my lord,” William said, recognizing the name. He had heard it two days ago at Bella’s—when the earl announced the upcoming ball. The man seemed to revel in beingknown. A similar invitation had arrived at William’s the next day. He had already planned to attend because of Bella, but now he was even more determined to go. There was obviously a deeper connection between the baron and the earl that went beyond their being card-playing cronies.
“I’m the Earl of Bridgewater,” Bella’s uncle said, maintaining a disinterested air.
“We’re playing faro, Pegram. Are you in?” Darkmoor asked, already shuffling the deck of cards.
“Yes, my work can be fraught with troublesome days. Perhaps it’ll keep my mind off things I’d rather not think of,” William said, hoping his act would provide enough deception to have the baron showing more than just his hand. He’d watch for the palming of cards, suspicious the man was cheating.
“Ah! You must have eyes in the back of your head to keep track of everything on a ship,” Darkmoor commented meaningfully, still fingering the cards.
“Indeed, you’re correct,” William said, peeling off a few pound notes to ante up.
“I believe it’s my turn to deal,” Darkmoor said, quickly getting the assent of the table.
As the baron dealt the cards, William’s sharp gaze caught a subtle flicker of movement—a single ace shifted deftly to the top of the deck. He observed Darkmoor palm the ace, nimbly sliding it into his cuff. A minute later, a second ace that had been flashing on the bottom of the shuffled deck joined it.Interesting,William mused, filing the observation away for later. For now, he kept his expression neutral, his lips curling ever so slightly, as though he were merely entertained by the game.
Two hours and five hands later, the earl downed his fourth cognac and, wobbly, pushed back from the table. “That’s enough for me,” he said.
“Come back tomorrow,” the barmaid replied, helping him to the door. “I’m sure your luck will change.”
Bridgewater hadn’t won a single hand all evening. William had claimed one victory, Darkmoor had taken three, and another man had secured the last. At one point, Bridgewater handed over his vowel to Darkmoor—a desperate gesture—but somehow still managed to settle his debts with William and the other player. By William’s calculation, the earl had lost a monkey—a substantial five-hundred-pound blow, enough to sting even a man of title and fortune.
Yet what intrigued William most was Darkmoor’s persistent focus on Bridgewater. Throughout the evening, it had become clear that Bridgewater was the intended target of the baron’s schemes. But why? What tied these two men together beyond their shared status as gentlemen? Darkmoor’s moves were too deliberate to be mere chance, and William’s mind churned as he searched for a connection—something buried beneath the veneer of civility, hidden among the shadows of the evening’s play.
~*~
Chapter Eight
Cliffton Abbey
It was the wee hours of the morning when Franklin pulled the coach into the drive of Cliffton Abbey. William was grateful to finally be home. After discreetly following the earl’s coach home, to make certain he arrived safely, William had watched from a distance, glad to have remembered his spyglass, as two footmen retrieved Bridgewater from his carriage. With practiced skill, they assisted him and escorted him into the manse.
It seemed Harlow had also been waiting up, for the door opened as William walked up the steps.
William felt he needed to respond to the earlier coded missive from the Home Office—if for no other reason than to detail what had been going on at the Winking Mariner. He had heard about men being fleeced of their life savings in Dover and thought if tonight was any indication, one man stood out as the possible mastermind of that. It was clear that Darkmoor held a substantial influence in town. William would have to figure out what he was using for leverage.
Exhaling with real exhaustion, he decided to stay up until his missive was completed, going into detail about what he had witnessed in Dover.
Once the task was complete, he pressed his seal—a hawk, symbolic of his code name,the Hawk, during his service as an agent of the Crown—into the wax, leaving behind its unmistakable mark.
While he felt no closer to uncovering the identity of the Pied Piper, he had at least secured a convincing false identity—one he might need to use again without arousing suspicion.
More importantly, he had observed what could be the true source of Bridgewater’s unease—and the man behind it all.
Baron Darkmoor. A man who raised more questions than he answered.
Too tired to bother with a proper bath, William used the water in the basin in his bedchamber and quickly went through his ablutions. He tugged off his clothes, leaving them in a heap for Patrick to deal with in the morning, and climbed beneath the covers of his bed. It was an unspoken agreement they’d made years ago: unless William specifically asked him to wait up, Patrick was free to retire with the rest of the household staff. Only the footmen and security guards assigned to patrol the estate and the manse worked through the night. Finally, with a deep sigh, William closed his eyes and let sleep claim him.
It didn’t last long.
He was awakened by a piercing cry. Realizing it was Michael, William threw on his breeches and his dressing gown and rushed up to the nursery.
Mrs. Randal gently dabbed the boy’s forehead with a damp cloth. “Sweetheart, it’s me, Mrs. Randal. I’m right here with you. You’re safe now—there’s nothing and no one here to harm you.”
Her pleas were having no effect. Michael continued to scream as loudly as he could as the night terror possessed him. “I want Mummy,” the boy wailed, tossing his head from side to side.
“His night terrors are back, Mrs. Randal,” William said. “I had hoped he was over them.”
Michael thrashed beneath the sheets, his small body tangled in the linens soaked with his perspiration. His face was contorted in the throes of his nightmare, and a low, panicked cry escaped his lips.
